7 best short stories by Richard Middleton

By Richard Middleton and August Nemo

Richard Middleton was an English poet and author, who is remembered mostly for his short ghost stories, in particular The Ghost Ship. Middleton suffered from severe depression, known as melancholia at that time. He spent the last nine months of his life in Brussels, where in December 1911 he took his life by poisoning himself with chloroform, which had been prescribed as a remedy for his condition. An encounter by Middleton with the young Raymond Chandler is said to have influenced the latter to postpone his career as writer. Chandler wrote, "Middleton struck me as having far more talent than I was ever likely to possess; and if he couldn't make a go of it, it wasn't very likely that I could."
Check out this seven short stories by this author carefully selected by critic August Nemo:

- The Ghost Ship.
- A Drama of Youth.
- The New Boy.
- On the Brighton Road.
- A Tragedy in Little.
- Sheperd's Boy.
- The Passing of Edward.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tacet Books
• Release date: May 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9783968584966

Richard Middleton

Born in the colonies, educated in England, Richard Middleton is a member of the Society of Archer Antiquaries and now lives in the Colonies again. His wife, who edited out all the vainglorious bits of this biography (which is why it is now so short), has declined (refused point-blank) to have The Practical Guide to Man-Powered Bullets dedicated to her, and only wishes it recorded that she is a saint for putting up with all Richard's experimental weapon-making activities. Though Richard's interest always returns to the simple catapult, over the last 30 years he has made countless bows, crossbows, and even airguns to study the velocity and trajectory patterns of their missiles. He likes to test things for himself rather than to believe handed-down orthodoxies - an attitude not without its costs, some might add.

Book preview

Publisher

Preface

By Arthur Machen

––––––––

The other day I said to a friend, I have just been reading in proof a volume of short stories by an author named Richard Middleton. He is dead. It is an extraordinary book, and all the work in it is full of a quite curious and distinctive quality. In my opinion it is very fine work indeed.

It would be so simple if the business of the introducer or preface-writer were limited to such a straightforward, honest, and direct expression of opinion; unfortunately that is not so. For most of us, the happier ones of the world, it is enough to say I like it, or I don’t like it, and there is an end: the critic has to answer the everlasting Why? And so, I suppose, it is my office, in this present instance, to say why I like the collection of tales that follows.

I think that I have found a hint as to the right answer in two of these stories. One is called The Story of a Book, the other The Biography of a Superman. Each is rather an essay than a tale, though the form of each is narrative. The first relates the sad bewilderment of a successful novelist who feels that, after all, his great work was something less than nothing.

He could not help noticing that London had discovered the secret which made his intellectual life a torment. The streets were more than a mere assemblage of houses, London herself was more than a tangled skein of streets, and overhead heaven was more than a meeting-place of individual stars. What was this secret that made words into a book, houses into cities, and restless and measurable stars into an unchanging and immeasurable universe?

Then from The Biography of a Superman I select this very striking passage:—

Possessed of an intellect of great analytic and destructive force, he was almost entirely lacking in imagination, and he was therefore unable to raise his work to a plane in which the mutually combative elements of his nature might have been reconciled. His light moments of envy, anger, and vanity passed into the crucible to come forth unchanged. He lacked the magic wand, and his work never took wings above his conception.

Now compare the two places; the streets were more than a mere assemblage of houses; . . . his light moments . . . passed into the crucible to come forth unchanged. He lacked the magic wand. I think these two passages indicate the answer to the why that I am forced to resolve; show something of the secret of the strange charm which The Ghost–Ship possesses.

It delights because it is significant, because it is no mere assemblage of words and facts and observations and incidents, it delights because its matter has not passed through the crucible unchanged. On the contrary, the jumble of experiences and impressions which fell to the lot of the author as to us all had assuredly been placed in the athanor of art, in that furnace of the sages which is said to be governed with wisdom. Lead entered the burning of the fire, gold came forth from it.

This analogy of the process of alchemy which Richard Middleton has himself suggested is one of the finest and the fittest for our purpose; but there are many others. The magic wand analogy comes to much the same thing; there is the like notion of something ugly and insignificant changed to something beautiful and significant. Something ugly; shall we not say rather something formless transmuted into form! After all, the Latin Dictionary declares solemnly that beauty is one of the meanings of forma And here we are away from alchemy and the magic wand ideas, and pass to the thought of the first place that I have quoted: the streets were more than a mere assemblage of houses, The puzzle is solved; the jig-saw — I think they call it — has been successfully fitted together, There in a box lay all the jagged, irregular pieces, each in itself crazy and meaningless and irritating by its very lack of meaning: now we see each part adapted to the other and the whole is one picture and one purpose.

But the first thing necessary to this achievement is the recognition of the fact that there is a puzzle. There are many people who go through life persuaded that there isn’t a puzzle at all; that it was only the infancy and rude childhood of the world which dreamed a vain dream of a picture to be made out of the jagged bits of wood, There never has been a picture, these persons say, and there never will be a picture, all we have to do is to take the bits out of the box, look at them, and put them back again. Or, returning to Richard Middleton’s excellent example: there is no such thing as London, there are only houses. No man has seen London at any time; the very word (meaning the fort on the lake) is nonsensical; no human eye has ever beheld aught else but a number of houses; it is clear that this London is as mythical and monstrous and irrational a concept as many others of the same class. Well, people who talk like that are doubtless sent into the world for some useful but mysterious process; but they can’t write real books. Richard Middleton knew that there was a puzzle; in other words, that the universe is a great mystery; and this consciousness of his is the source of the charm of The Ghost Ship.

I have compared this orthodox view of life and the universe and the fine art that results from this view to the solving of a puzzle; but the analogy is not an absolutely perfect one. For if you buy a jig-saw in a box in the Haymarket, you take it home with you and begin to put the pieces together, and sooner or later the toil is over and the difficulties are overcome: the picture is clear before you. Yes, the toil is over, but so is the fun; it is but poor sport to do the trick all over again. And here is the vast inferiority of the things they sell in the shops to the universe: our great puzzle is never perfectly solved. We come across marvellous hints, we join line to line and our hearts beat with the rapture of a great surmise; we follow a certain track and know by sure signs and signals that we are not mistaken, that we are on the right road; we are furnished with certain charts which tell us here there be water-pools, here is a waste place, here a high hill riseth, and we find as we journey that so it is. But, happily, by the very nature of the case, we can never put the whole of the picture together, we can never recover the perfect utterance of the Lost Word, we can never say here is the end of all the journey. Man is so made that all his true delight arises from the contemplation of mystery, and save by his own frantic and invincible folly, mystery is never taken from him;